


Before the Midnight Comes

by Durinsbride



Category: Turn (TV 2014), Turn: Washington's Spies - Fandom
Genre: Bad History, Fake History, Fantasizing, Frottage, I'm Going To Hell For This, Kissing, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Patriotic Smut, Pining, RPF, Unrequited Love, and freedom, it's red white and blue (balled) dammit, still it's for America
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-06-09 22:38:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6926677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Durinsbride/pseuds/Durinsbride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And then, suddenly, another vision of beauty rose before him; a pair of blue eyes, equally fathomless, ringed with sooty lashes, lit with the same fiery light of the stars...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before the Midnight Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Washington, unable to sleep one lonely midnight, takes a solitary walk through camp and overhears a troubling conversation.

_Meet me at Midnight_  
_In the forest of my dreams_  
_We'll make a fire_  
_And count the stars_  
_That shimmer above the trees_  


-Christy Ann Martine

_Continental Army camp, North of Philadelphia_  
_October 10, 1777_  


The hour was late and his taper was sputtering at the wick, smoking, and still he could not retire this night. The letters before him, endless reams of correspondence, gathered intelligence, conscriptions, council, and advice, beckoned. Each demanded his attention, and their plea could not be denied. The success of this war, the fate of this fledging nation, and the birth of Her sovereignty depended upon so much parchment and ink. 

General Washington heaved a gusty, exasperated sigh.

Ink and _soldiers_.

They were in much the same state as last winter. Enlistments were due to expire in less than two months’ time, which was bad enough, but coupled with an alarming rate of desertion and their appalling lack of food and basic supplies, their defeat, it seemed, was only a matter of the enemy seizing upon the right opportunity to bring them all to their knees. They would not, _could_ not win this contest from patriotic fervor alone, as he had explained to congress only a month prior:

_We are now as it were, upon the eve of another dissolution of our Army; the remembrance of the difficulties which happened upon that occasion last year, the consequences which might have followed the change, if proper advantages had been taken by the Enemy; added to a knowledge of the present temper and Situation of the Troops, reflect but a very gloomy prospect upon the appearance of things now, and satisfy me, beyond the possibility of doubt, that unless some speedy, and effectual measures are adopted by Congress, our cause will be lost..._

Lost indeed, for want of a blanket and a decent breakfast, and it was due to this knowledge, that mere trifles stood between the realization of their just and noble cause or its dissolution, that he took upon the mantel of her champion; he would fight for the United States of America, for her people, and for their freedom, now more precious than ever, because so close at hand, and yet so far away for the mere want of men and mutton.

He could not, would _not_ abandon the fight now…

Yet he was weary. 

Despite the approbations of the public, the support of Congress and their unceasing plaudits and praise, he was no paragon of the cause, but a mere mortal after all. There were parties enough ready to tear the laurel from his brow and see him removed, posthaste, from this sacred office. With their black hearts and tongues they attacked his honor, his character, his very being—and these same disciples of Judas would not rest until they saw him fall in disgrace.

His general manner, his comportment, they argued, was ill suited to command. He’d a devilish, hellfire temper, they contended, quick to rise at the slightest provocation. If they dared just one minor criticism of his command, so boasted the free press, their Commander-In-Chief would let loose the fires of Hades itself in reply.

Half right, they were, for he was fallible flesh and blood indeed, and he did possess an awful temper—

Yet he was never more aware of these failings now, looking over his desk; for though this great epistolical siren compelled him, he could not answer her song. The lines of script, written in a myriad of fine, elegant hand, were like so many piles of unraveled thread to his burning, alas, all too mortal eyes.

Washington sounded a deep sigh and pushed back from his writing desk, lifting one broad, strong hand to his face to rub at his brow and to smooth over the tension on his jaw, only to be met with the sharp rasp of stubble beneath his fingers. Unshaven and exhausted! He must look a fright...

To persist in his labors in this state was an exercise in futility. It was time to retire and seek his bed.

Yet the thought of his meager berth, fine linen notwithstanding, could not tempt him enough. His extremities pained him from sitting in one attitude for so long. Both legs and arms stiff from disuse and lack of movement. Some exercise, a brisk walk in the cool air, would help soothe the ache from his limbs.

Decided, he rose to his feet, wincing only slightly at the pain the motion caused him, which was thankfully minute. Before long he'd swung his coat and cape about his shoulders and cleared the threshold of his tent, pausing just outside the entrance to draw in a deep, cleansing breath. He felt himself revive accordingly, so after a moment, he drew another. 

The activity cleared his senses, as he knew it would, and he began to feel revived. Smiling to himself, he canted his head backward to gaze up at the stars. 

_Ah_ , how he adored the deep, endless blue of the firmament! Whether he looked upon her at midnight, as he did now, or in the dazzling azure of day, that same wonder, that same shattering joy that he’d felt as a child, never failed to overtake him. He watched in delight as the cold, silver light of distant stars trembled and flashed above him. It was a thing of beauty, that fathomless blue…

And then, suddenly, another vision of beauty rose before him; a pair of blue eyes, equally fathomless, ringed with sooty lashes, lit with the same fiery light of the stars. Bright, cunning eyes set above a small but perfectly formed mouth. A mouth petal pink and plump, quick to sound rebellion whenever he counseled its owner to patience, caution, and better blessed _sense_!

He stumbled backward for a moment before he caught himself, taken aback by this startling apparition, so clear and vivid, so…troubling to his fancy, and the strong emotions that had accompanied the same. Gathering his cloak about himself, he set off at once. A brisk walk was what he needed now—the better to clear his mind of such idle, wayward, disturbing fantasy.

Movement aided that endeavor, and in six long strides he felt centered, and after several more his troubling apparition faded altogether as his stride became measured and effortless, as his body reveled in the exercise. Before long he found himself nearing the midway, or the main crossroad of their camp, where traffic, human and otherwise, was often heaviest. He paused just at the edge of an avenue, a line of dirty canvas tents just off to his left, reluctant to break his solitude. There was always company to be had at the midway.

True to form, there were two guards standing there now, hovering near the campfire blazing merrily at the center of the crossroad. He took a step backward and secreted himself from their view, unwilling to call attention to his person. The crossroad was a popular meeting place; the fire, a necessity, was frequently tended by all hands every hour of the day, and there were always a number of enlisted men lingering there, cooking food, sharing warmth, drink, news—

“Oi there, Browning! Did ya get any quim, eh? Did ya get any pussy?”

And ribaldry.

“Aye!” Came the lusty reply. “That I did, that I did! And it were finer than yer mother’s tight fanny, Higgins!” 

“Oy!” The first man returned. “No need for that! Watch what ya say about me muther!”

“Oh come on now,” Browning admonished, pausing to take a nip from his flask, “all in jest, lad. All in jest.”

“She’s a _saint_!” Higgins continued, clearly not in the least placated, “an’ I wont have ya—“

Browning stepped forward with an apologetic mien and clapped his companion on the back a few times with enough force to send the other man staggering forward, but the boy's brow was still thunderous, his eyes flashing. 

“No harm, lad, no harm! A saint she is, then, though there be no’ many here!” He passed his flask to the other in a gesture of goodwill, eager to restore their prior camaraderie.

After a moment of tension, the younger man seemed to deflate, a reluctant smile pulling up the corners of his mouth. He took the flask and downed a healthy swig. “No, for sure! Sinners to the last!” He returned, passing back the flask.

The General had heard enough. There was nothing unusual here, just two enlisted men sharing a drink and a few dirty japes. Time now to retire to his bed. To that end he turned on his heel—

“Aye, sinners all! Exceptin’ our Benny-Boy, o’ course.”

Only to pause, intrigued.

Laughter again from both, though less friendly, mayhap even mocking in tone. What was this about, then? Perhaps he could delay his return.

“Oh don’t go on abou’ that, Browning! The Major be a man like everybody else. He might be pretty,” (Browning huffed incredulously) “alright, _very_ pretty,” the other hastened to qualify, “and learned, but he shits the same, I reckon!”

The General frowned. 

He did not often countenance such uncouth behavior, and thought for a moment to intervene and reprimand these two for their language, for indulging in idle and hurtful gossip, but he was reluctant to engage them. The weariness that had so long plagued him, yet had somehow denied him sleep, had returned at last with vigor. He was sorely tired—indeed too tired to use this opportunity to enlighten them and check their bawdy antics. Besides, there was the matter of that remark about one of his officers, just a moment before. He would listen for a bit longer, to confirm his suspicions as to his identity.

Browning paused a moment before his reply to spit out a wad of phlegm, a wry smile bending his mouth. 

“Perhaps,” he countered, tapping his nose to indicate his savvy. “But a better candidate for sainthood I’ve never seen ‘round these parts! Won’t touch a drop of wine or spirits, unless it be paired with dinner. Never tupped a lass, far as I know, nor looked sideways at one!” Browning laughed aloud then, seemingly amused by his own observations, “oh no, not our Benny-Boy! He’d never sully himself so!” 

But his amusement seemed to vanish as he quieted suddenly, as his gaze and demeanor turned contemplative, his eyes gazing off into the middle distance. He was quiet for a long moment, taking another nip from his flask. When he continued, his tone was markedly changed, no longer mocking, but gentle, almost sympathetic. “Never looks at anyone tha’ way, matter o' fact.” Another long moment, and then he murmured, almost as an afterthought: “no one save his Excellency the Gen’ral, that is…”

What? 

Whom were they speaking of? Surely not—

“ _Benny_?” Higgins asked incredulously, “you think he—that he—“ the other man struggled with the idea for a moment before waving his hand before him in a dismissive gesture. “ _Nah_! I think not. As you said, the boy be as pure as the driven snow. Not a lustful bone in all his body!”

Browning shrugged and fell mute once again, apparently considering the argument, and the impact of his words. “Aye,” he answered solemnly, after another protracted moment of thoughtful silence. “He is a bit queer on that score. Never seems to covet nothin’, save fighting for the cause. But I’m near certain of it. There’s this look in his eyes, I swear, when he looks upon the Gen’ral. Somethin’ deep and abiding…”

Higgins scoffed at that, still struggling with his belief in their subject’s capacity for affection, in his ability to harbor…covetous urges towards another. The other, in this case, (and here Washington shook his head in sheer disbelief, hardly daring to countenance such a notion) being _himself_ …

“But it’s more than that, ya ken. Much more.” Browning began, only to pause once more, seeming to mull over his next words, finding them imprecise and wanting, but cussed to use them all the same. “That boy… _adores_ him, see. Worships the very ground the Gen’ral walks on, he does. He can do no wrong in his eyes.”

Major Tallmadge. 

The General could deny it no longer. They were speaking of Major Benjamin Tallmadge.

But…they _couldn’t_ be. 

There wasn’t anything of _that_ sort between them (nor should there be). The Major was just a boy! A naïve, passionate young man with more drive and ambition than sense. He had an impetuous, youthful sort of inconstancy that was only to be expected in a man his age, with his lack of experience in the larger world, in matters of politics and subterfuge. He was just a devoted patriot…an…idealist, and quite headstrong, almost reckless.

And as for the…other claims, well, that was just nonsense. The boy suffered from a minor case of hero worship, nothing more.

Higgins seemed to agree.

“That’s just admiration. Boy looks at him like a father.” Then he made a grasping motion for the flask, sighing happily when Browning passed it over, pulling a long draught from the flask.

“Oi! Share it now!”

“A _father_ , I say.” The other persisted.

Browning reached for his flask and pulled it away from his companion’s grip with alacrity, frowning when Higgins was a bit slow to pass it over. Quick as a flash, he tucked the bottle away in his coat pocket. “No boy looks at his father the way our Benny-Boy looks at the Gen’ral,” he continued, once he was satisfied that his remaining spirits were safely secured on his person.

“Oh, is that so? And what _way_ , pray, is that?”

Yes. That was the salient question, indeed.

Browning started to smirk, cutting his eyes sideways at his companion as if he doubted his intelligence, his apprehension of the patently obvious.

“Like the boy wants to bugger him raw, o’ course, given the chance…”

The General gasped.

“Or be buggered in turn. Doesn’t seem to matter to him either way!”

The breath stalled in his lungs, his face flaming at their lascivious language. How _dare_ they insinuate—

But both men were laughing heartily now, as if everything were one fine, grand joke. 

“He’ll bend either way!” Higgins crowed, nearly stumbling over in his mirth, slapping at his knee, “he’s quite flexible, our Benny-Boy!”

More laughter.

Watching them from the shadows, the General struggled to master himself, to stifle the rapidly rising ichor in his blood. He took a step forward, drawing breath to sound his fury—

But something stopped him, kept him in his place. It was a terrible storm in his heart, a rank mixture of anger, shame, incredulity, (a _vast_ deal of incredulity) and an odd sort of helplessness. He wanted nothing more than to step from the shadows and cut them to the quick, deliver a verbal fusillade of disapproval and condemnation for their impudence, for behavior most unbecoming of an officer, let alone a gentleman, make them regret that they ever said a _word_ against Major Tallmadge.

Yet he could not risk another embarrassment at the hands of his temper! Not at this most critical juncture, only two months from the termination of his enlisted men’s service, not when desertion had become a serious problem, an unstoppable, disastrous hemorrhage depleting their numbers, drawing men away left and right with each passing day. 

And it would worsen should he give in to his anger now, as badly as he wished to. Their cause would be well and truly lost in the end, merely to satisfy his pride, his sense of honor. For though any insult to any of his officers was a personal insult against himself, he could not place himself above the fate of his nation, of his people, whether they deserved it or not.

Swallowing hard, Washington closed his eyes and focused on breathing, drawing air into his lungs, holding it there, and then exhaling. He _would_ conquer himself, or be damned for it. He would not succumb to Lyssa’s madness, and make a fool of himself _or_ his sacred cause.

Long moments he stood there in the cold, as hard, as immobile as granite, reduced to a mere automaton drawing breath, insensate and empty. 

When at last he felt himself draw away from the edge of the abyss, he straightened and opened his eyes. 

In the distance, he heard the watch cry out the time. Midnight. Another day had ended, and another had begun. The two men, hearing the call, threw their hands up and rejoiced, for now their duty was officially at an end. Today was now Sunday, their day of rest, and all their obligations could be set aside until the morrow.

At the mark of the new day, the men were back to passing the flask back and forth between them, taking longer and longer pulls from the bottle, well on their way to getting spectacularly drunk, as was their right. He could not intervene, for on this day, and this day alone, he was not their Commander, for another, worthier being took his place, the true commander of them all.

He gathered his cloak about him. Time to turn, at last, to his bed.

As he chose the best path in which to proceed, to keep himself hidden from their view, he couldn’t help but look up at the two men in passing, glancing their way for only a moment before he stepped back into the trees.

But it was enough to see that one man was on his knees in front of the other, pantomiming a vulgar scene, that of one man pleasuring another with his mouth. Their laughter and their mockery rang loud and clear through the still air.

“Anything for you, yer Excellency!” said the man on his knees, bobbing his head enthusiastically, acting as if his mouth were full to bursting with the phantom member of the other. “Anything, Sir. _Anything_! I live to serve you! I am yours and yours alone, for I _love_ you…”

Their raucous laughter, their vulgar pantomime, chased him through the night and to his tent. His heart and mind greatly troubled. He would do his best to forget what he had seen and heard this mid-night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to hell. A special hell for people like me, who've decided that writing romantic, smutty, gay love between two actual people, important to history, is simply OK because the actors that portray said actual people are so unbelievably gorgeous and I just want them to kiss so, so bad! Go ahead and do it, it's only fanfiction!
> 
> Damn you, show runners of Turn, for casting Seth Numrich as Benjamin Tallmadge. He of the Puppy Eyes and Patriotic Purity. A most righteous and drool-worthy babe of the first water. Spy Master, you say? More like Master of my Heart...
> 
> And double damn you, show runners, for casting Ian Kahn as George Washington, the most smoldering, dead sexy, bangable DILF-y Washington to ever strut across my screen. Damn you, damn you all to hell.
> 
> But seriously, I adore the pairing of Ben Tallmadge and George Washington. The dynamic between them is palpable, and Seth Numrich has a way of looking at him with this beautiful hero worship in his eyes. Whether they were aware of it or not the writers and actors created the most alluring potential of a pairing between the two, especiallu when you're a pervy fangirl like me, who loves pretty boys banging pretty boys...*sigh*
> 
> (The built-in Daddy Kink is a nice bonus, too!)
> 
> So, here is my modest addition to the fandom for this pairing, which I confess is my OTP for Turn. I haven't come across any agreed upon ship names, so I humbly advance this portmanteau: Major General Tallington.
> 
> I have a tumblr, not for egotistical reasons but because I simply wish to interact more with fellow fans and the greater fandom in general. It can be found at http://durinsbride.tumblr.com/
> 
> A coupla notes: the letter excerpt in the beginning of the story os copied almost verbatim (I changed the spelling of satisfie to satisfy) from one of Washington's actual letters to congress, the full text of which can be found here:  
> http://www.let.rug.nl/usa/presidents/george-washington/on-recruiting-and-maintaining-an-army-1776.php
> 
> Also, Lyssa is the Greek spirit of madness, rage and fury. 
> 
> The real Washington, I've read in several sources, truly did have a formidable temper. His calling General Lee a poltroon (coward) actually happened, as did one memorable rant against his soldiers when they started to desert him mid-battle halfway through the Revolutionary war. He called them all cowards, jumping off of his horse to berate these men in a raging fury. (Read 1776 by David McCullough, it offers one of the best, most realistic and humanistic portraits of George Washington, and the best description of this incident.)
> 
> I will be working on the second part (and possibly third, depending on how that goes) to this story during the next couple of weeks, and attempt with everything that is in me to finish it, come hell or high water, Fellow Patriots.
> 
> I'm nervous as hell though, and hope you like it. More smutty pining and longing and lusting to come in the next installment, as well as gratuitous Washington and Tallmadge objectifying for our reading pleasure!
> 
> Julie


	2. The Deepest Gray and Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben has some troubling news to relay to the General. A plot is afoot, and it could mean danger for the officers, Ben included, and perhaps for the General himself...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nathan Hale is deceased.

_The Next Day:_  
_October 11, 1777_

In the afternoon, Ben was on his way to meet with Mr. Sackett, with the aim of getting to the bottom of the Philadelphia Conundrum, as they'd taken to calling their latest significant, though problematic intelligence, courtesy of his dear friend, Joshua. The brisk walk through camp did much to clear his head, as he’d a troubled and interrupted sleep the night before. He was terribly anxious and restless these days; the success of their endeavor weighed heavily on his mind, and that concern, among many, did not make for a happy bunk mate _or_ peaceful slumber.

Mr. Sackett, however, seemed more thrilled than troubled. 

"What an intrigue!” He’d crowed, just two evenings prior, reading the short, coded message contained within Joshua’s letter, a distracted smile creasing his face. In moments, mouth moving as he read along, he was deeply absorbed, lost to the sensate world and deeply bewitched with their latest entanglement, just as he was with every development that came their way, whether good or ill. And this was definitely a most troublesome and dangerous turn for all concerned. With each passing day, since receiving the letter, Ben’s concern for his dear friend, and for his family’s situation in Philadelphia, grew apace.

The Major paused just outside the entrance to the tent, shaking his head and smiling ruefully, taking a moment to compose himself before stepping inside.

Sometimes, Ben was certain, their amazing Mister Sackett rather enjoyed this dangerous but necessary business of theirs a great deal more than he truly ought. This latest intrigue, despite the involvement of one of Ben's treasured friends, was no different. While the professor was just as concerned for Joshua's safety as Ben himself, in every other particular he was smiling, or laughing, or responding with gleeful enthusiasm to every idea or subterfuge that they managed to cook up during their endless, late-night sessions full of shared cider and pointed debate.

"Dammed bloody bastards, the whole lot of them," Mr. Sackett had opined about the aristocracy, both here and abroad, one particularly garrulous evening, long before the advent of Joshua’s troubling letter. "Indolent and hedonistic. Living a life of pleasure and idleness in the ‘Age of Reason.’ Theirs is a life where their native reason and intelligence is subservient to materialistic pursuits and earthly, sensual desires." He paused and took a swig of cider, tossing Ben a wink when he was done. "It must be _glorious_!"

Ben had blushed in reply, as he always did at such talk, cursing the telltale heat that swept over his face and neck, betraying his embarrassment. To blush so like a naïve, untried boy! A man grown and he could hardly endure even the suggestion of vulgarity.

Earthly, sensual desires.

Truly he knew nothing of these, though he'd often thought on them, even attempted to study them, for he had never understood or known their appeal...

Ben’s rueful smile shifted and grew troubled, contemplative. 

That is, until now.

_Now_ he was beginning to understand earthly, sensual desires very well indeed.

Yet it hadn’t happened suddenly, between one long, lonely night in his bunk or the next. No, if he were honest with himself, it had begun long before, on that winter night so cold and dark, when he'd stood in a puddle of melted snow in that stifling, closed room listening to a steady, purposeful tread come ever closer, his heart in his throat as he awaited his fate at the hands of his superior.

No, in truth, it had begun the first time he'd ever set eyes upon the noble person of his Excellency, General George Washington.

Outside Mr. Sackett's tent, Ben shook his head sharply and closed his eyes, his gloved hands fisting at his sides as he tried to blot out the always-vivid recollection of that first meeting. Still it persisted, and he could hear the sound of a warm, rich baritone inquire "now... just who is Abraham Woodhull?" as if he were standing in that very room at this very moment.

And in that moment, he could do nothing but stand mute beneath the powerful, preternatural study of those large, deep eyes, scarce draw breath as he struggled at the realization that _He_ , the first among men, was present in the very same room as himself, and waited upon his answer with all due attention.

Until that evening, he’d never known or experienced such a feeling in the presence of another person, as if he were floating above the earth, yet weighted down in a flood of sensation, sharply aware of every sound, scent, or color, almost pained from the extremity of every experience. Ben had stood before his noble Commander, his arms and legs numb while his last breath lay trapped in his lungs, his eyes tracing and retracing every minute line of Washington’s exquisite form and visage, so like a Caesar of old come to life! 

For he was tall (a veritable giant!) and broad shouldered, powerfully built, the picture of health and vitality; and he’d a countenance that spoke of authority, intelligence and dignity. The broad sweep of his brow a pleasing mantle that sheltered eyes of the deepest gray and blue, like the waters of the sound on a cloudy day—

Ben exhaled sharply, returning to the present almost forcefully, though he was loath to draw himself away from that most cherished memory. It had taken some time, repeated and prolonged exposure, in fact, but eventually he was able to simply converse (rather coherently, even!) with his Excellency without the distraction of his pulse thundering in his ears, or that dratted, telltale blush staining his face and neck…

But _oh_ , that first and most innocent discomfort had been bliss! For now, he was no longer distracted by such trivialities—

No indeed. 

For the rush of his heart and the flutter in his throat had given way to an eager, rapacious need to gaze upon the object of his fascination at every opportunity, to touch and trace that fine, solid form with a type of longing that was almost like hunger. Now he was a slave to his ‘earthly’ senses, craving every sight, sound, and scent of the man, the indulgence of which brought him naught but a sweet, urgent... _want_...that suffused his limbs, stole his breath—Ben shuddered—and settled in his groin. Heavy. Fulsome.

Aching.

Ben tightened his jaw. Drew breath to gather himself. No, no, none of this. _None_ of this.

"My dear Benjamin! Is that you, my boy, darkening my doorway? Come in, come in!"

He would overcome these feelings. He would master himself. 

“Benjamin?” Came the query, followed by the sound of movement from within. The older man had risen to his feet—

Ben swept the heavy canvas aside and ducked under the flap to stop Sackett from leaving the warm confines of his wagon/tent, schooling his features to betray nothing of his current, largely self-pitying thoughts. Mr. Sackett had been ill only recently, and Ben didn’t want him to venture out in the cold so soon after his recovery.

The older man stopped short when Ben suddenly appeared at the threshold, blinking owlishly for a moment before breaking into a broad, toothy grin. “Look at this, my boy! Just _look_ at this!” He shook his fist at Ben, his plump fingers clutching a heavy piece of parchment in his left hand. Yet it was not just any piece of parchment, it was very obviously a letter. The Major tilted his head and squinted sideways at the heading…

A letter addressed to _himself_ , in point of fact.

"Our fine _Miss Mormont_ has sent us another report!" Mr. Sackett began without preamble, (and Ben had only a moment to feel perturbed that the older man had commandeered his most recent personal correspondence without his permission, before conceding it was probably for the best, at any rate) "and the mystery deepens! By Jove, this Joshua—excuse me, _Miss Mormont_ —is a brave young man! The deadline, if you will, hasn't changed, but these new details, however skillfully he obtained them, offer no new insights. It's most curious...most curious indeed..."

His voice grew softer, distracted, before trailing off altogether, his eyes lowering to the letter he held in his hand, subjecting the lines to another thorough, eager study, no doubt much like those at had come before. The professor loved nothing so much as an enigma. Ben was certain that if he remained quiet, and simply stood there without calling attention to himself, the other man would quickly forget that he was there at all, and go off into another long, dream-like think that would occupy his attention for several hours. Maybe more.

And Ben would not allow that to continue, not at cost to his health. It was such neglect that had led to his illness in the first pace, no doubt, and as long as he was here to keep an eye on the older man, he would see to it that the professor kept after himself.

To that end, he stepped past the professor and walked over to the small, (slightly) less cluttered work table near the back of the wagon, lifting the napkin off of his dinner plate, frowning when he saw that there were several bites missing, but not much more. 

Unacceptable. This would _not_ continue.

"You need to eat more, Sir." Ben admonished gently, though with considerable feeling, struggling, and failing, to capture the older man’s gaze. "You need to keep up your strength—now more than ever."

Mr. Sackett didn't stir, or give any indication that he'd heard. He was bent over his paper, murmuring under his breath, shaking his head as if to clear it, tapping at the lines with his blunt, restless fingers.

"Curious. So _curious_. A parcel, of some sort. But of what? By what method?” The professor continued to mutter to himself as Ben stepped closer and took hold of his hand and gently removed the (now dog-eared) letter from his grip, and hopefully from his fascination.

"Enough, please," he began softly, letting his concern for the other man override his own curiosity and desperate need to know what further report had come at the hand of his dear friend. "You've studied this so much already, I wager, that you’re not able to think beyond your first impression. You are looking with eyes that are trained to one purpose, one way of seeing. You told me as much before, remember?"

Mr. Sackett seemed to wilt a trifle under his words, his shoulders sagging and his small, rounded form growing yet smaller, as if the fatigue of his body was only held at bay by the strength and stamina of his (brilliant) mind.

"True, my boy, true," he admitted with a weary sigh. "I've fallen prey to the very fallacy I so often counsel you against. It is therefore time to subject this puzzle to another set of eyes, another perspective...."

“Then no doubt mine will suit. Let me take a look,” Ben requested, reaching for the letter and fighting the urge to roll his eyes, once again allowing himself only a moment of annoyance at the fact that _his_ letter, addressed to _him_ , was coming to him second-hand. But it was only a moment’s annoyance: the professor wasn’t one to stand upon ceremony or ritual between them, especially since he considered Ben more than a protégé, but a dear friend. His cavalier invasion of Ben’s privacy, no matter the urgency of the correspondence, was without true malice or condescension.

“Well then, have a go at it, if you must” the professor replied, fidgeting for a moment before turning on his heel at Ben’s continued expectant expression, and obediently returning to his neglected supper.

“Thank you,” Ben returned before unfolding the letter completely, scanning the contents quickly, counting lines, until he came upon the eighth (four twice over) and spied their signature of old, framing the corners of the paragraph: NBJC. The first letter of each of their names, of the Fearless Four, as they used to call themselves:

Nathan, Benjamin, Joshua, Caleb.

_**N** ever let it be said that I would neglect our dear friendship, that I would succum **B**_  
_to the artifices of the fairer sex and therefore pretend that my affections lie elsewhere_  
Just to increase and enflame your desire for me! No, nor through any other, despoti **C** ….

And etc.

The body of the letter, penned by an ardent ‘Miss Edwina Mormont’ (and old matron of theirs from their boyhood days) to her faithful Mr. Benjamin Tallmadge, was mere filler and drivel, of course, the better to disguise the message, embedded in the second word of every second line thereafter (two pairs of two, or Nathan & Joshua, Benjamin & Caleb) which ran thus:

_Danger—to—officers—to—you—method—device—uncertain—arrival—by—parcel—estimation—one—month_

Parcel. 

Ben frowned, thoughtful. It was certainly an odd message, and not much in the vein of Joshua’s usual phraseology. The word was so singular, so startling, that Ben surmised it must indicate an overheard, or borrowed term, rather than represent Joshua’s own choice. But why would he continue to use it, even in an encoded message? Brevity and clarity in the message, especially one of this import, and perforce secreted as such, was paramount, and Ben knew enough of his old friend to know that he wouldn’t risk a misunderstanding through the use of imprecise words or phrases. So why parcel? Unless it was important somehow…

“Parcel is deliberate, yes…” Mr. Sackett said from just behind him, now seated at his worktable and sullenly picking at his ham and greens, and Ben realized he must have been thinking aloud. 

“I thought the same. Our dear Miss Mormont is not one to mince words.”

“And parcel implies something small, mobile, easily transported from one location to another.”

Ben nodded, thoughtful as he read the last bit of the message, which ran thus:

_No—further—details—will—report—upon—discovery_

“He’s taking a great risk, doing this, you realize.” Ben added, his hands tightening on the heavy, expensive parchment he held in his hands. An extravagance that Joshua could ill afford, even it if served his cause and completed his disguise as a love-struck suitor. “His mother and siblings rely upon him for their sole financial support. They would be in a desperate situation should he be found out.”

Mr. Sackett finished chewing his small bit of ham, nodding in agreement. “I’m aware, my dear boy, of the great risk that he takes, the sacrifice his actions demand. Which is why it is of paramount importance that this news reaches his Excellency—”

The older man glanced wistfully over at his cloak and gloves, currently lying over the back of his personally crafted replica of a Franklin style rocker (that was better than the old man's, the _other_ Benjamin's Mr. Sackett had insisted). Clearly he was done with his dinner and wished to depart at once. His next words confirmed it: “I will take this to His Excellency—”

The professor clambered to his feet and began to make his way to his cloak and gloves in all due haste before Ben caught hold of his shoulder in the next moment, tightening his grip on the older man’s collar and gently tugging him backward, arresting his forward motion. 

“No, you will not. You will attempt to finish your meal, or at least the majority of it,” Ben glared at the other man severely to push his point home, “while I will relay this latest news to the General.” He tried to ignore how his blood quickened at the very thought, eager for any excuse to seek out the company he most desired. He tried, and failed to ignore how eager his feet were to take him there, to _him_ , at the least provocation.

Damn and blast. 

“But I’m not hungry,” the professor returned, a bit petulantly, “and I need to speak with his Excellency in any ca—”

Ben gave another tug, and then turned the professor back towards his chair. “ _Eat_ ,” he commanded with a little push to his back, “and then, perhaps a nap? You could use the rest, you know.”

Sackett dropped back into his chair with a sour expression, reminiscent of a child that resented being told what to do. “Perhaps I shall, perhaps I shan’t. I am your elder, boy.”

Ben bent forward in a bow. “And a most beloved friend,” he added, “So I only ask these things of you because of my concern for you. So please, take care to eat as much as you can and get some rest. I will take this news to the General.”

“Hmmph,” the professor responded, settling back in his chair with a sigh. “If you must, my boy, if you must.” He fell silent for a moment, contemplative. “I daresay he would much rather receive you than me, and with greater grace and patience, I’ll wager, even as busy as he is." Another pause, and petulant sniff. "Anything for _you_ , of course. You are his favorite, after all…”

It was a good thing that the professor had returned his attention to his dinner plate, because Ben could not disguise the resurgence of his treacherous, blasted blush at the sudden pleasure he felt, contemplating, even for a moment, that he was, could possibly be, the General’s _favorite_ …

Ben spun on his heel, eager to get moving and cut these thoughts to the quick. “Get some rest,” he bit out over his shoulder before ducking under the canvas of the threshold and stepping out into the cold. He needed to speak to the General about this latest news, the sooner the better. 

“Yes, Mother.” Came the insouciant reply.

Ben’s sure step faltered a bit at that remark, and he was tempted to return to the tent and have a few words with his friend on that score, but he pressed forward. He didn’t have time to waste, not with Joshua's safety as a concern, and the sooner he got about his business, the better. He would deliver this news to the General and then retreat, for he had indulged these selfish feelings long enough. He would not linger, nor delay his departure by one moment more than necessary.

His _favorite_ …

Ben shuddered, pausing for a moment in his determined stride before resolutely squaring his shoulders. 

Quick. To the point. 

Brief. 

For he would not look upon him more than was absolutely necessary. He would not, no matter how strong the impulse, linger…

His Excellency was just a man, (an amazing, miraculous man…) like any other. Flesh and blood. Mortal.

Ben shook his head, tightened his fists, and kept walking. 

He would be strong. He would conquer this.

He concentrated on placing one long stride after another, and before long he had reached the threshold of the General’s tent, breath tangled in his throat. He nodded to guards, announcing his visit, waiting with barely checked patience as they announced him, sought permission for him to enter. After a moment's pause, it came, and he proceeded forward to the darkened, tempting depths within.


	3. Soft as Cloud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben has some news to share with his General, but he isn't quite prepared for what awaits him inside the General's tent...

_The first gentle touch, when it came, was mere breath laced with desire, fragrant and warm. A breath that twined and tangled with his before he swallowed, tasted, then exhaled it, pushing back the sweet he’d been given, so that his boy could savor it in turn._

_Soft as cloud, the gentle press of that pillowed, silken mouth followed that first trembling breath, touching his lips again, and again, and again, and he chased each retreat with his own, eager mouth, sipping, tasting, catching and pulling on that pliable flesh as it warmed and darkened beneath his own. Every taste, every liquid slide and catch was like nectar to his starving mouth, and he swallowed each precious drop like a man dying of thirst._

_And perish he would, for he sought no other food, no other nourishment, save the sweet mead of that small, perfect mouth…_

_With a groan, he wrapped his arms around the lithe, slender form above and turned him over, folding the smaller body beneath his, sheltering him under his wider frame. One broad, trembling hand wove into the boy's golden hair and tugged backward, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, and the hard slant of his mouth was met with a trembling, stuttering breath—_

And with a sharp exhale and a jagged spark of heat that raced like lightening through his limbs, Washington woke with a start, his face buried in his pillow, his hips pressing down into the mattress, writhing, shifting, restless. His hands were tangled in the fine linen sheets that had twisted about his legs during the night, tightening into fists as if they were grasping for something, or someone, that was no longer there. 

Had never been there.

He closed his eyes and struggled to draw breath, willing his body to still, to calm, mortified as his hips jerked forward without his permission, seeking greater friction, a harder pressure, and he groaned at the wet slide of his heavy sex against the rough fabric of his night shirt, helpless as he spent himself deep in his tangled sheets.

The noise of his release was so pained, so desperate and loud in the still air of the dawn that Washington snapped upright almost at once, tearing back the linens and bolting to his feet. Scrubbing at the sharp bristle on his face, he struggled to gather himself before sweeping his hands over his neck and chest, trying to dispel the heat that lingered there, coloring his flesh pink. 

But it wasn't enough. He could still feel the phantom press of that lithesome form beneath his own, still feel the evidence of his pleasure against his stomach, his hip...

Reaching for the hem of his night shirt, he pulled it up and off of his body with one fluid motion, wiping absently at his groin before he swept the whole lot, his nightshirt and sheets, to the base of the bed, still breathing hard, struggling to clear his mind and fancy of all sensation, save the chill of the rough plank floor beneath his feet, the hard bite of the morning air flooding his tent with bracing cold.

It wasn't enough, for still he ached, and wanted, and hungered. 

In the next moment, three long strides took him to his washbasin and ewer. He tapped at the layer of ice on the top with three hard jabs, breaking it open, then splashed some of the water over his head and shoulders, and after drawing a deep breath, poured the rest over his heated, aching groin.

Another hoarse shout tore past his teeth, rocking through the dawn stillness as he stood there, gritting his jaw and waiting for the hard bite of the cold to recede from his tortured flesh, shivering madly. When it had subsided enough he grabbed his wash cloth and quickly cleaned himself, and after several through strokes of the cloth, his body, at last, was blessedly free from all evidence of his indiscretion, all sensation save the chill. Yet there was no such ablutions for his mind, memory...

Pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, he willed them away, each heated kiss and gentle caress, each eager press of that slender form, legs tangling with his, hips thrusting upward, hard and wanton—

Groaning, he was helpless as one last, heated rush of pleasure raced through his limbs, waiting for it to pass before he steeled himself against further indiscretion. He refused to give the phantom greater shape and dimension in his mind. Ruthlessly overlaid the memory of dark gold and burning blue with the red of summer roses at Mount Vernon, the deep gold and brown of late summer corn, the soothing jade of his wife's eyes.

His _wife_.

That thought alone was enough to sober him completely, as horrible guilt washed away the last traces of heat from his flesh. He was trothed to her, his dear wife and friend, and therefore there could not be--would never be--room for another in his heart. 

He shivered.

_Or_ his bed. It had happened in the past, but it could never happen again.

This had been...the result of physical weakness, nothing more, coupled with the stress of separation from all he loved and held dear. Isolation and lack of exercise. The lack of the physical comforts of marriage. He could not help but be victim to the demands of his body. Yet these were temporary burdens that would soon be eased by the coming of winter. The establishment of a permanent camp for the officers. In time, he could return home for a visit, a brief stay and much needed rest in the soothing balm of his wife's company. He took solace in the thought alone.

Yet it wasn't long before a rough knock sounded against the support beam at the entrance to his tent, and he startled at the unexpected noise, hastily wrapping a long bath linen about his waist. 

"Sir! Good morning. May I enter?"

Billy. Prompt as always.

"A moment, please!" He called out, pulling in a few calming breaths to slow the still thready, erratic race of his heart, fists clenched tightly in the hem of his towel. "One moment," he repeated, his throat tight and his voice soft, bewildered. Broken.

That was all he needed, surely. Just one moment to gather his composure, to close his eyes and banish every last, lingering trace of that sweet, unbidden desire. Every press of that sinfully soft mouth against his own.

He swallowed hard. 

_Damn it all_!

With all his strength he willed such thoughts away, forcing them to return to the depths from whence they came, and where they would, God willing, remain.

A moment later, it was as if they had never been, and everything was in order, at last.

"Come in, Billy!" He called out, voice steady, tranquil. His roughened face called for a razor, posthaste. "I have need of your assistance."

The day, and his duties, awaited.

 

***************************************************

 

By late afternoon, Washington had gone from one extreme to the other, from a morning of bitter cold to an afternoon of searing heat. From a resolute desire to accomplish, obtain and achieve to the selfish need to lounge and dither, to do nothing more than savor his Madeira and stare aimlessly into the distance, which was now his current, and much welcome occupation. 

Billy had taken his unusual flush that morning for the onset of a cold (or some other ailment) and so had stoked the fire in the little potbelly stove to a veritable fever pitch. Unable to counter Billy's claims or lessen his concerns, Washington said nothing as his manservant hastened about the tent most of the morning, checking for drafts and advising him to sit as near to the fire as he could, the better to stave off the mortal (judging by the way he described it) illness that lurked round every corner.

He insisted that the General dress warmly, as well, and while Washington was of a habit and inclination to be nothing less than formally attired at all times, especially while in camp, he hadn't wanted the usual, complicated accouterment, but after some cajoling from Billy he passively gathered layer upon layer about himself, until it was like he were clad in armor! His long shirt and waistcoat, necktie and sash, his great coat, and of course his stiff, beetle-black boots and buff knee breeches. But he had refused to dress his hair more than necessary, sighing with pleasure as Billy left off any powder (wasn't necessary in the everyday) and simply braided the longer strands in a neat plait in the back, tying it off with a black ribbon and declaring it done.

"Thank you, Billy, you've been most helpful. Please see to your own comforts today. I have much to accomplish this morning, and would like to do so without interruption." 

Without interruption and without _burning_ to death, that was.

For Billy had taken it upon himself to duck inside every so often, counter to his orders, when he was most distracted with correspondence or other matters, to add more fuel to the merrily burning blaze that was slowly warming the atmosphere of his tent from merely arid to the scorching, perditious levels of Hades itself. 

With each passing hour, sweat gathering at his brow, ink staining his fingers, Washington removed one more tight, confining layer until he was as he now found himself: great coat and waistcoat long removed, draped over the newel post of his bed, shorn of all linens (Billy had barely paused when the General had asked him to take his sheets and nightshirt to the laundress, though he did favor the General with one lifted brow), his neck cloth torn from his neck and lying in a coil at the edge of his desk.

But still that growing heat compelled him, until soon his long shirt was opened wide down his throat, baring the first third of his chest and the base of his neck, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up past his elbows, revealing strong forearms that still retained the warm, honeyed hues of sunlight on skin, courtesy of his love of extensive outdoor exercise in far less formal attire.

He brushed a strand of dark auburn hair away from his brow absently and contemplated the rich, russet hue of his Madeira, pleasantly mellow and loose-limbed, lost in thought.

That's why when the guard had come, requesting permission to grant a visitor, the General had merely nodded his assent before thinking it through, still meditating upon the way the sunlight sparkled gold and white on the waters of the Potomac. His thoughts were far from camp, and further still from protocol.

"Thank you for receiving me, Sir, I have new infor—"

His visitor's tone, which began as light, courteous and deferential, didn't truly penetrate his awareness until it abruptly languished and tapered off into a harsh intake of breath. The person who had entered had taken two confident strides before coming to a sudden halt, the action arresting his forward motion so acutely that he staggered for a moment before gaining his feet.

Still much removed from the present moment, as if in the throes of a dream, the General raised his head at the sudden change in the atmosphere, the unexpected intrusion of another's company through the pleasant veil of his solitude, forgetting, for a moment, that he had just granted permission for the very thing—

Only to find that in the next moment, it was he who was at a loss for breath, struck through and immobilized from the comely vision before his eyes.

A slender form, somehow so familiar to his fancy, standing tall and straight in the pale light of the waning sun at his back, light which cast an angelic halo of gold that limned his lithesome contours, limbs clad in blue and buff and white, burnished gold crowning his head, burning blue shining from his eyes. Pure, soundless blue, set above a soft, perfect mouth...

"Sir!" He was speaking, this vision, hurriedly dropping his eyes to the floor, his gaze casting about as if frantically searching for something to focus on, a fine blush staining his handsome features. But just as his gaze slanted away it would inevitably return, as if compelled. "I'm so v-very sorry! I thought that you--that I had permiss—I would never intrude upon your privacy, Sir!"

The words penetrated, at last, and the General blinked, pulling himself out of his torpor, the myriad pieces, impressions, and sensations finally slotting together into one cohesive whole.

"Benjamin," he said, naming the vision that stood before him, his voice roughed from wine and disuse, more of a rumble than his usual, rich tone.

"S-sir I—allow me to—er, w-what?" That fine blush deepened further. Those soft lips parted, expelled a stuttered breath. That shy gaze dropped again to the plank floor.

How...intriguing.

A long moment passed, one where he simply gazed at the handsome young man before him, unable to look away, until the silence fell so thick that his own reply, at last, came back to him, echoing in his ears, as well as the low, appreciative tone in which it was uttered, and now it was his turn to color in embarrassment.

Of all the improper—

“Excuse me, _Major Tallmadge_ ,” he corrected immediately, sitting up straight and setting his wine glass aside, firming his tone, desperate to erase that last moment between them and bury it in layers of practiced, stilted formality. “You’ve something to tell me, Sir?”

The burning blue of that gaze was shuttered beneath long lashes, but it rose for a moment to sweep over his form once again, seemed to linger at the line of his shoulders before dropping once more to the floor, and there they remained, safely averted once more.

“It can wait, Sir.” Came the soft reply. “For when you’re less…indisposed.” The Major gestured vaguely at his person, and the boy shifted minutely on his feet, clearly embarrassed.

Frowning, Washington glanced down at himself, wondering what the devil was wrong with him, that the Major felt so uncomfortable, until he suddenly realized the state of his attire. 

Or _lack_ thereof…

Swallowing, he straightened further in his chair, tempted to ask the Major to leave so he could collect himself, schedule their meeting for another time, one where he was properly attired and in the proper frame of mind to receive him.

But glancing over at him, noting the way the young man was clearly discomforted, nearly boiling under that fine blush that stained his features a most becoming pink, made him hesitate. This was, quite suddenly, _very_ amusing, and he was loath to adjourn their meeting just yet.

“Oh come now, Major Tallmadge,” he chastened, “we must not always stand upon ceremony here. We are soldiers, after all, encamped and idle for the moment, and some informality is to be expected. There is nothing here to prohibit our business.” Though he’d never conducted business with a bared chest and arms, looking like a farm hand lounging about after a hot day, sweat glistening on his neck and shoulders, his unkempt hair falling over his brow.

He forced another swallow past his tightened throat. It would not do to succumb to his own embarrassment now, not after such bravado. On to business then, and pray that it ended soon, before he lost his nerve. “You said you have news?” he prompted.

The Major shifted on his feet, still looking sideways, addressing his remarks to the tent wall, struggling, it seemed, to answer in kind, with a similar nonchalance to match his superior, but the minute tremble in his voice was telling. 

Yes. Most amusing indeed.

“Yes, Sir. I’ve j-just received a letter from a dear friend, with most troublesome news.”

“And that would be?” He prompted, when no other declaration was forthcoming.

The Major struggled to lift his eyes, but upon catching one glimpse of his bare, tawny forearms, immediately dropped them again. The General waited a moment for an answer, his patience eroding with every beat of silence that stretched between them.

“The answer is not written upon the floor, Major,” he chided, warring with some strange mixture of amusement and annoyance at this continued display of delicate manners. He suddenly wanted those eyes trained upon him at once, rapt and respectful, as they always were. As they always _should_ be...

unable to help the small chuckle that escaped him from the sheer incredulity of the situation. “Though I dare say it may be," he continued in the tick silence, 'given your continued fascination with it, Sir.”

At that, the Major suddenly straightened, raising his head and squaring his shoulders, his blush fading as he lifted his eyes to meet his General’s gaze at last, the sharp bend of his brows and the tight corners of his mouth betraying his pique. He took two strides forward and slammed a heavy piece of parchment upon his worktable, spreading it wide with his fingers, striking the surface so hard that the general's wine glass rattled, nearly toppling over from the blow.

“No, Sir, it is _not_. It is written here, if you care to read it.”

The bite in the major's words, and the fiery burn of those blue eyes, suddenly so close, caused something to slide, hot and thick, into his gut, and he was helpless as the sensation rolled through him, a mixture of ire and desperate want, heated and possessive, greedy and expansive all at once. Yet it was the boy's tone, above all else, that riled him, and the glare that the younger man leveled in his direction that prickled him under his skin, and he fought the rise of his temper, swallowing down the knot that had formed in his throat. Of all the _impudence_ —

“What does it say, Major?” he asked carefully, quietly, each word given equal emphasis. He found himself angry at the boy's cheek, and yet he craved the continuance of these insouciant replies, his whole body and his senses spoiling for an argument, even a physical confrontation. His mouth ran dry.

A tussle.

The young man did not cower, and returned his stare, measure for measure.

“We are in danger, Sir, from an attack or sabotage of some kind, one directed at our officers, at our highest chain of command.” The Major began softly, leaning forward into his space, tapping sharply at the parchment before them with emphasis. The boy's face was now much closer to his own, so close he could see the flecks of gray buried deep in the younger man’s eyes, cobalt shard like little daggers, glinting and fierce, darkening with his next, startling words. “Against you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! Sort of a cliffie, but I had to stop here or risk going on forever and posting a fat, uneven chapter. (Besides that I was getting a) bleary-eyed and b) eager to post.)
> 
> More to come.


	4. Proper and Perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Washington and his young officer continue their conversation, but the atmosphere changes between them...

"Show me," the general commanded. The urgency of the major's tone, and the sincerity with which his warning had been uttered, dispelling his pique and sharpening his concern. He knew the younger man was ever alert for any threat against his person, and his intuitions, though inconstant in proof, were generally accurate. If the major felt the threat was genuine, then he would answer that concern with his full and impartial attention.

But some of that urgency dissipated as he turned his eyes to the thick parchment spread wide beneath the young man's slender, strong hand, as he read through the first few lines of the missive. His gaze was inexorably caught, snared fast by certain words and phrases that were, upon a casual glance, staggeringly affectionate, terribly...amorous. The words of a lover. Words penned, it seemed, by one Edwina Mormont.

The general frowned.

A woman? Had the major invited _another_ woman into the ring?

Troubled by the irrational surge of jealousy that accompanied such a thought, that his young, idealistic officer was in regular correspondence with some young woman, some unknown and untested young woman, collaborating, strategizing, sharing news and other intimacies, he was forced to remind himself that the content of the intelligence was far more important than whom had delivered it.

Yet: "My Dearest, Darling Benjamin," he began to recite aloud, without the conscious decision to do so, nor entirely conscious of the warm, roughed tone of his voice, loosened from wine and indolence, as deep and sweet as a lover's whisper. "My Love! How I've missed your embrace, your gentle touch! How I've missed the sweet press of your lips upon my--"

The major shifted suddenly beside him, startling the general by abruptly drawing the parchment away from the surface of his work table and holding it to his chest for a moment, swallowing hard. "S-sorry, Sir. I should have explained. That's--" he gestured dismissively at the letter before lowering it once more, his slender fingers now lying across the top of the letter, hiding the first portion from his view. After a moment, when it became clear that the major would not remove his hand, Washington's frown deepened. He had wanted to read on...

"Sorry, Sir," the major repeated, and though noting the general's displeasure did not seem inclined to remove his hand. He drew a deep breath instead, gestured again to the parchment in an offhand manner, the pale perfection of his face once again marred with the heat of a blush, his dark lashes lowering to shield the expression of his bright eyes. "T-hat's," he swallowed again, Adams's apple bobbing from the motion, "just nonsense and filler. Just. Drivel, Sir. The m-message is hidden, starting in the second paragraph, fourth line down, the second word of every alternate line."

Ah.

"I should have explained that...er...straightaway, Sir."

A hidden message. Of course.

Strangely mollified as something loosened minutely in his chest, his amusement from earlier returned, as well as his intrigue, and with it a pleasant sort of shiver in his chest and groin. "Far too busy warning me," the words left his lips without his permission, "in typical dramatic fashion, of the imminent danger against my person, Major," he gently chided, fighting a smile.

Those eyes caught his, their expression a touch rebellious, the corners of his mouth equally so, and it captivated him. "Far too busy making a point," came the pert reply, "against the usual hard-headed objections" a pause. "General."

Washington fought the smile that continued to tug sharply at the corners of his mouth, feeling more of that pleasurable shiver at the casual mention of his rank, at the major's frank and steady gaze so soundly caught up with his. He liked hearing it, he realized suddenly, in a manner in which he hadn't ever before, especially when it came from the lips of his young officer, and most especially in the manner in which it was uttered; teasing, playful.

Mischievous.

"Perhaps it would be a more efficient, more effective communiqué if this latest...intelligence, Sir, dire though it may be, were not disguised as a billet-doux?" He continued, hoping for a return of that becoming blush. "Nor addressed to, how was it? Oh yes, Darling Benjamin..."

He liked the shape of the major's name in his mouth, he found, almost as much as he liked hearing the younger man address him by his rank, liked it very much indeed, and he wanted to say it again. So he did, relishing each syllable, as if tasting it, savoring it with his mouth. "Benjamin..."

And... _ah_ , there it was.

The major dropped his eyes, shifting minutely, blushing as sweet any maid at the mere sound of his name. "That's." He cleared his throat. "Just a d-diversionary tactic, Sir." He answered softly. "All the better for disguise. For...concealment...if it's intercepted, you see. They will not. That is, not many will suspect subterfuge if they read beyond the opening, if it's especially...passionate? I suppose, or eh...pro--provocative?" He seemed unsure on that score, his tone suggesting that what was considered passionate or provocative was beyond his present understanding.

At that, Washington couldn't stop the smile that finally won out against his tight control, and it curled the corners of his mouth even as his breath felt suddenly static and electric deep in his chest. Passionate? Provocative? He was certain that this boy couldn't even _begin_ to comprehend what was provocative. Provocative was a comely young man, dressed handsomely in full uniform, gilded in dying sunlight, unable to meet his superior's eyes, stammering over his words.

Which is why, at that moment, the general found it hard to tear his eyes away from the major, forgetting, once more, the urgency of the message he'd come to deliver. He was rapt in the picture the younger man presented to his suddenly insatiable gaze. Captivated by each soft, shuttered breath that passed the major's lips, breaths that warmed his cheek, the line of his jaw.

So he took a deep breath of his own, relishing the scent of soap, water, and the clean cold air of winter that was twined around the young man, mixed with the subtle scent of sweat and leather. As Washington continued his avid study, a myriad of sweet, forbidden fancies began to flood his mind, fancies brought about by the words he'd just read, of embraces, gentle touches...sweet kisses...

With sudden, shattering intensity, the remnants of his dream, half forgotten, twined with the present reality and sharpened, deepened his fancy, so that now he could almost feel the phantom embrace of those strong, slender arms, feel the ghostly press of that soft mouth and the teasing brush of silken hair against his face. The same honeyed strands, the general noted, that were gathered neatly at the back of the boy's neck instead of spread wild and thick under his fingers, (where they belonged) the dark gold bound with a deep blue ribbon of royal--no--patriot blue, the wavy strands subdued and tame, perfectly controlled.

As they always were. As he always was. Not the wanton of his dream, but a soldier and servant.

Proper and perfect.

That's why as the major raised his eyes to his, brows bent in confusion from the unusual and prolonged silence, Washington knew that he must say something soon, produce some action or gesture that would break him of this intense regard before this interview left the realm of the proper altogether.

(And _gods_ above, how he longed to show him, exactly, the difference between passionate and provocative, so that there was no question left indeed.)

With more strength then he knew or ever suspected he possessed, the general struggled to reign in his fancy and return the boy there, back to that proper and perfect place. There was business to be done, fresh intelligence on their doorstep, a dastardly plot afoot--

"The eh...second...paragraph, you said?" _Return to the matter at hand_ , he admonished himself. These feelings, these troubling desires, must be denied. He had no other choice if he were to stop this folly.

But then the major nodded, the motion dislodging a single, wayward strand of his hair, that fell loose and soft over the curve of his brow, the slight rise of his cheek. The edge of that golden strand was then caught in the fan of his eyelash, and rippled minutely every time those dark lashes shifted, every time he moved or drew breath, and with that, Washington's damnable composure, so recently won, scattered to the very winds.

"Yes, Sir. Starting on the fourth line down," this beguiling vision explained, clearly answering some earlier question, which he was damned if he could remember now--

Fourth line.

A vision of dark gold. Lush pink.

Fourth line?

And fathomless blue. Like cornflower.

What the blazes about the damnable fourth line?

The general reluctantly dragged his gaze back to the parchment before him, struggling to remember what they'd just been talking about. His eyes lit upon the phrase "anything for you" and he suddenly remembered the bawdy words and pantomime of last evening, those lonely soldiers and their bawdy suggestion that this proper young man beside him was capable of very _improper_ things indeed, of deeper, stronger feelings than mere admiration or regard. That he would, should the general ask, fall to his knees in service...

The general shifted in his seat, heat unfurling in his groin as his eyes helplessly returned to the younger man's face, straight to the sweet, plump push of his bottom lip, swollen from the press of his teeth, (though he'd seen it not, what else would cause the flesh to swell and darken so prettily) silver-wet (and what else but the sharp, hurried slide of his tongue would leave such a tempting, glistening shine?) and wholly irresistible.

That hot, twisted slide of want sharpened, until it was almost painful, and it was all he could do not to raise his hands and thread them through those tidy, perfect, gleaming strands and tangle them up tight in his fingers, slick that mouth anew with his own, wet heat.

He felt himself shift, rise from his seat--

And through an act of sheer stubborn will, spun on his heel the moment he put weight on his feet, tugging the letter out from under the major's hand and drawing it away from him, turning his back on the younger man and taking three purposeful strides across the damp wooden slates of his tent floor in the opposite direction. Distance. He needed distance almost as much as he needed his next breath.

Clearing his throat, brandishing the letter before him with an exaggerated gesture of study, he struggled like the very devil to keep his place, to keep his feet rooted right where they were, glancing down, unseeing, at the parchment before him. The words swam before his eyes.

_The message, you fool_ , he chastised himself, pulse erratic and thready, groin full and tight. Aching. return to the bloody _message_.

"Second paragraph? Fourth line down?" He managed after an eternity, still turned away, willing himself to calm, his voice like the crunch of a boot over gravel. The sooner this interview was ended, the better.

"Yes, Sir." The major answered almost breathlessly, subdued, watching him with an unusual attention. Even with his back turned, the general could feel it, that intense and avid focus on his person, and despite the impulse, the temptation, Washington knew he could not turn to meet that burning blue gaze, or he would be lost. His (once again) carefully established control undone.

"Every other word?" He clarified, amazed that he could remember that much, when he scarce could remember his own name and rank, should anyone ask this very moment.

"No, Sir. The second word of every alternate line," the major corrected gently.

So the general bent his head and scanned through the flowing, elegant hand for the correct words. It took quite some time for his attention to return to the task, for the traitorous thickness of his cock to lessen, perhaps too long, but soon his eyes caught upon the rhythm of the code, and thereafter he was scanning easily through the text, until at last, the message in its entirety was revealed to him:

_Danger—to—officers—to—you—method—device—uncertain—arrival—by—parcel—estimation—one—month_

"Danger to officers," Washington muttered, finding himself on firmer ground the more he read, the more his body calmed. "Device uncertain." How cryptic. This message, as it stood, was neither helpful nor informative, and he found himself questioning the skills and capacities of this _Miss Mormont_ , who could have used a course in more...precise communication. "Parcel?" What an odd word. That suggested something small, at least. Something portable. Easily transported, perhaps smuggled.

He scanned the rest quickly, looking for clarification, further explanation, but there was none forthcoming. The pattern fell apart after soon after the last paragraph.

He turned to catch the major's eye, to further question him, when he suddenly remembered his former resolve, and settled his gaze on the shoulder of the major's great coat, on the round edge of a snowy epaulette. "Parcel..." He repeated, contemplating the (rather scant) detail of this latest "warning." The general frowned in contemplation, reviewing the message through once more, on the chance that it would elicit any further understanding, or sudden intuition.

"Well?" The major prompted after yet another round of prolonged silence, clearly expecting a more emphatic response than the general had offered him.

Washington gestured to the parchment in his hand, kept his gaze level with the half-empty glass of Madeira at the edge of his table. (It was safer that way.)

"Well what, Major?" He returned, directing his question at his wine glass. (And to think that just moments before he'd chided the major for failing to meet his eyes, when now he struggled with the same!) "While I can appreciate your diligence in communicating this message," he continued to explain to his forgotten Madeira, "I must confess I'm quite confused as to your estimation of its importance, or what, precisely, inspired such urgency in the first place?"

The Major looked decidedly nonplussed, even disappointed. He gathered breath, squared his shoulders:

"Any threat against you, Sir, is reason enough to--"

"But there is none--"

"Take immediate action, and...w-what?"

The general waved the letter pointedly in his direction. Indicated the very paragraph in question.

"You said there was a threat against my person. From those words I take it to mean a direct and unambiguous declaration of harm against myself, so named or explicitly stated, and yet, I've read nothing of the kind here. Miss... _Mormont_...made no such claims, rather the opposite in fact."

The major's (lush) mouth opened and closed a few times, moving to sound words, though none emerged as he clearly struggled for something to say, and largely failing before he drew another fortifying breath, determined, it seemed, to attempt another go. "Sir," he persisted, "he said officers--"

"Precisely," the general interjected crisply, "which--wait, what?" In his surprise he could not help but raise his eyes to catch the younger man's gaze with his own. "Did you say he?"

The young man nodded. "Yes, Sir. 'Edwina Mormont' is the chosen pseudonym of one of my dearest fiends, Mr. Joshua Nelson." A soft, gentle smile bent his mouth as he gazed inward at some fond memory. "Perhaps I should have explained that prior to the start of our conversation, Sir."

The general's frown deepened at this reply.

The boy, he was unhappy to note, was far too ready to extend his trust and confidence to another. To reveal to others what should be his most closely guarded secrets. Though he, as his Commander in Chief, (and therefore chief defender and protector, as he thought himself) should be the very first, perhaps the _only_ man he should confide in, the one man the boy could unreservedly trust, he was alarmed at how easily the boy offered up the truth to whomever should ask. At the slightest urging, even.

"Major Tallmadge..."

He wasn't aware that his concern for the younger man had tendered his voice, so that it emerged sweet and soft, that his gaze had become uncharacteristically warm and affectionate, that his usual placid, dignified composure had entirely abandoned him. The general didn't realize that anyone could enter his tent this very moment, take but one look upon him and see for themselves just how deeply the general cared for the young man standing before him. If he'd known, he would have been mortified. Fortunately there were none there to witness this astonishing change.

(None save the very man who most desired it.)

"You need not reveal your sources to me." He took a step forward, an odd tightness in his chest at the thought that someone of far less noble character could so very easily injure this young man, exploit his trusting, open nature. That his own damnable affability and genuine desire to please others would help them to do it. "In fact, it would be best if you did not. You are far too eager to trust others. Myself included."

Now it was the major's turn to frown, his confusion plain. Those blue eyes completely open and without design. "But, Sir," he protested "who else should I trust, if not you? There is no one I could trust more. Not a single soul. I trust you with my very life."

That tightness in his chest sharpened further, as if a bolt had punched clear through the middle of an open wound. In that moment, he didn't know himself. " _Benjamin_..." He whispered, overcome, and found himself moving forward--

And in two strides, there he was, standing before him, and the major gasped, his eyes widening in surprise when the general reached forward and wound one arm around the slender dip of his waist, his hand settling at the small of his back to tug him forward, the other winding deep into that golden hair, where it had so desperately longed to be almost from the moment the young man had set foot in his tent.

"Benjamin," he repeated, helpless to his need. Damn it all. He could no longer fight this. He tightened his grip in that silky hair, tugged the boy's head back, and the younger man groaned, his eyes sliding closed as Washington bent forward to slant his mouth over his. To claim it, at last, beneath his own--

When a knock sounded against the support beam at the threshold of his tent. Three solid, staccato raps that revealed in an instant who was without, seeking permission to come within.

"Billy!" The general gasped, and the two men sprung apart, each breathing as hard as if they'd just sprinted over a long distance.

"Sir!" Billy called. "May I enter? I've come to enquire about your evening meal."

_Damn his hide_! "A moment, please." He found himself repeating, just as that morning. "A moment!"

The major was attempting to restore order to his disheveled hair, his face pale, his lower lip trembling as he clearly struggled to regain his composure.

"Major Tallmadge," Washington began, suddenly mortified at what he'd done. How could he begin to apologize, to explain himself?

"Excuse me, Sir, I will take my leave."

"But--"

And with a quick turn of his booted heel, the boy was gone.


	5. Not Soon Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benjamin is not a coward, and he never runs away. He returns to the general's tent to explain himself.

Ben almost lost his footing as he emerged from the heated confines of the general's tent, nearly colliding with Billy's solid form hovering just beyond the threshold, the manservant's face creased with mild concern for the general. 

With his eyes averted, head bent sharply downward, Ben struggled for composure as he made to pass the other man, willing his features to relax into a smooth, benign expression that would belie the frantic pounding of his heart, that wouldn't enhance the flush of his heated skin; for his every nerve was burning and alive at every point where the general had touched him. He was sure that beneath his disheveled greatcoat and waistcoat, the smooth skin of his lower back wore the brand with a five-point mark, one for each of the general's wide fingertips. 

He cursed the telltale blush that still colored his flesh, (his traitorous confessor) and resolved to retreat as quickly as possible, hoping that Billy would excuse his rude behavior. He had every hope that he would make it back to his own tent without falling to his knees, before begging the hard, cold earth to swallow him whole and remove him from this plane of existence forever. 

Yet, it seemed, such mercy was denied him. 

"Good evening, Major," Billy called out in cheerful greeting the moment Ben cleared the threshold, a wild smile lighting his entire countenance. He carried a covered pail in his hands, which was steaming pleasantly at the rim, as well as a brush and towel, a cup of shaving cream. 

"Good evening, William," he managed, despite the clench of his jaw and the tight cage of his teeth, bending his head in a brief nod before he swept past. With his gait hurried and unsteady, Ben staggered for a moment and jerked sharply sideways as he attempted to pass the other man, bumping against Billy's side. 

At the jolt of their contact, the pail Billy carried brushed his hip, the liquid sloshing inside vigorously before settling. Ben felt the heat of the boiling water bleeding through the side of the vessel, warming his sensitive flesh. He gasped-- 

" _Oh_! My apologies, Major! Are you hurt?" Billy cried as he reached toward the Major, concerned-- 

But _that_ sting, sharp and fleeting, was but a pale imitation of the heat of his general's touch. 

Suppressing a shudder at the thought, Ben managed a reply. "No, William, thank you." He returned in another tight, controlled burst, gently pulling his hand away from the manservant's light hold. "It is I that should offer apology; for the fault was mine. Forgive my clumsiness, and please excuse me." 

He knew his abrupt manner was verging on unbearably rude, but there was no helping it, he could not linger here a moment longer, lest his folly were discovered. 

To that end, he resumed walking, and in three long strides, he was still holding his breath, still reeling from the heat and proximity of his idol, the intoxication of his nearness. He could not think, and he needed solitude. To try to forget the sight of his general's broad chest and strong throat, the temptation of so much honeyed skin encased in crisp white. His dark, yet fiery hair falling over his brow. The compelling warmth of storm cloud eyes…

After he had first stepped inside the general’s tent, he had been overwhelmed with the portrait presented to him. The general was no longer an idol, but suddenly a man of flesh and blood. Real, tangible, so much smooth, unbroken flesh on display. Still darkened from the sun, betraying his sensual, physical nature, his love of the outdoors. His general had always handsome to his gaze, but he had never expected the general to be so…alluring. So tempting in his ease, his gentle dishevelment.

Nor had he expected such a swift and sudden longing upon the sight of him. More than the usual desire to be near him, Ben suddenly wanted a whole lot more than mere proximity. He wanted to step so close that there would be no space left between them. Close enough to share breath. Close enough to touch. 

Ben groaned.

To _taste_.

The major flushed anew. The distance to his tent had never seemed so far, so impossibly distant. 

"Major Tallmadge!" 

However, luck had abandoned him. There would be no merciful, quick retreat from the scene of his folly, his indiscretion, not with the very devil on his heels! The devil in the form of a dedicated, conscientious manservant. He would be undone. 

"Wait, please, Major Tallmadge!" 

He started to walk faster. 

"Sir! Wait! Wait please!" 

Ben wanted nothing more than to continue forward, to ignore the cries of the other man and retreat to the safety of his tent, where he could try to understand what had happened to him, what was happening. This impossible intoxication winding now its way through his very blood. He wished to ignore the other man, yet with Billy's repeated pleas he could not pretend otherwise, that he was not aware of the other man calling out behind him, racing to catch up. Despite every instinct to retreat, Ben forced himself to a stop. 

Billy was at his side in the next moment, looking a little chagrined, confused, and more than a little concerned all at once. His large, expressive eyes scanned the whole of Ben's flushed countenance, the long strands of his hair, his gaze pausing, as they seemed to find something telling in the major's shadowed eyes. Something the other man recognized and seemed to comprehend all at once, not that Ben was in any state to notice or appreciate the other man's sympathy. 

"Please, Sir," came Billy's gentle rebuke, his expression softening in tandem, "I don't mean to keep you, but you dropped this..." His dark eyes continued to study the major, who was unaware of his close attention, unable to raise his eyes to meet the manservant's kind, knowing regard. 

Therefore, he was thoroughly surprised when Billy held out his hand, wide palm flattened, and there, resting in the center, was the deep blue ribbon Ben used to bind his hair. 

Staring at it now, coiled in Billy's grasp, the gleaming, brilliant length seemed to taunt him, to damn him more soundly and surely than any verbal confession. Swallowing over the knot in his throat, Ben raised his helpless gaze to Billy's earnest and open face, ready to beg for his confidence, his forgiveness. His understanding. 

Anything. 

Yet Billy was not angry, or gazing upon him with contempt, but smiling gently; he waited patiently for the major to respond. When he did not-- 

"Here, Sir." His smile widened cautiously. "Allow me..." 

He set down his pail and supplies and stepped behind Ben, quickly gathering the loose strands of Ben's golden hair together at the base of his neck before twisting it expertly into a neat plait and tying it off with the ribbon. It was over and done in a thrice thanks to his years of practice and experience. For a moment, Ben did not move. He was unaccustomed to such personal care, such efficiency. 

Therefore, he startled a bit when Billy took a step back, surveyed his handiwork, and patted the base of the major's neck, smiling in satisfaction. 

"There. Ought to do it. I'm sure it won't fall out again." Though Ben could not see it, his smile deepened, as did his general air of affability and kindness, that same sympathy and understanding lighting his dark eyes. There was not a trace of disgust twisting through his expression or clouding his gaze, nor a hint of suspicion in his warm regard. Just a certain sort of knowing. 

"All set to rights." Billy paused. "Is it _not_ , Sir?" 

Ben struggled to form words, some response, opening and closing his mouth, surprised at this sudden turn of events. There was a clear question in the other man's words, a curious note of sympathy, of camaraderie, one that Ben felt compelled to answer. 

"No, Sir. All is not well," he found himself responding, before he knew he meant to speak, before the words had properly formed in his mind. His voice grew small from his embarrassment, reduced to a whisper that was near lost in the still cold of the quiet dusk. "Rather the...op-opposite, in fact." 

Billy hummed an assenting noise behind his back, indicating that he had heard the major and was listening, but he made no effort to speak. He stood there quietly, in perfect, alert stillness, clearly waiting for Ben to continue. 

Somehow, that patient, open silence calmed him and encouraged him to continue. "I am..." began the major, reaching an epiphany in that very moment, startled by the force of emotion that followed it, "I am a coward." A tremor ran through his limbs, a shame so profound he thought he might fall to his knees, if not for Billy's steady hand suddenly falling to his shoulder and gripping tight. "I am a _coward_ ," he repeated in wonder, struck through with the realization. 

Another noise of assent. "And why would you say that, Sir?" 

"I--I'm running from conflict instead of towards it, William. If. If N-nathan--" and here he suddenly found himself short of breath as the terrible, miserable ache of the loss of his dearest friend, never truly abated, gripped him hard and fast, and he was unable to speak past the suffocating grip of his sorrow. He swallowed, and tried again. "If Nathan were here, he would not run away." 

Another moment of weighted silence passed between them. 

"Then do not, Major." Came the quiet reply, when Ben could say nothing further as he struggled to hold back his tears. "Do not run away." 

Moments after that simple, yet startling pronouncement, Billy nodded sharply, offered Ben another wide smile, then clapped him twice on the shoulder before turning quickly on his heel, walking back the way he'd come. 

For a moment, Ben was nonplussed, and could only stand there mute as he watched the other man retreat, not certain what Billy had meant to communicate in their last exchange. There was something he did not understand just now, something significant. With those deceptively simple words, he had said something else altogether, something he could not say in so many words. 

"William..." Ben called after him, frowning, "wait--I don't underst-" 

The other man stopped walking and turned towards him, his mouth bending into a sheepish grin as he shrugged his shoulders. 

"Would you look at that? It appears that I have forgotten the hot water," he answered, despite the fact that he carried a steaming pail of the same in his broad hands at that very moment. "I must go back and retrieve it." His grin broadened. "I guess I shall be a little late with this evening's toilet. Please inform his Excellency on my behalf?" Now Ben noted a definite twinkle in his eye, a mischievous sort of sparkle that flared to life a moment before the manservant turned away and resumed his retreat, leaving Ben standing alone just outside the general's tent. 

The tent he had just exited. Within which remained the general. Also alone. 

_Ah_. 

Of course. 

For several moments, breath caught in his throat and his pulse sounding loud in his ears, Ben stood immobile in the growing dark, uncertain of his next move. He felt the overwhelming urge to return to the General's tent immediately, to speak to him about what had just happened--had _almost_ happened between them--but caution stayed his feet. 

Would it not be for the best to leave it be? To try to forget that it had happened? 

Yet then he thought of Nathan, of how badly he had wanted to tell his best friend of his feelings, of his desire. Desire for another man that he had buried so deep because of his shame, his uncertainty, and buried for so long. As it was, fate never gave him the chance, for Nathan had died before Ben could tell him how much he had loved him. Longed for him. 

And yes... _wanted_ him. 

And here and now he could do the same; deny the outlet and expression of his deepest longing, tuck it away so very securely that it would eventually die of suffocation and starvation, simple neglect, dead before it ever began to live, to warm his cold and aching heart. Better, indeed, to let it die... 

Once he had conquered the demands of his heart and flesh, he could be free again. Free of the yearning he felt every time he looked upon the general. That damnable longing that would, he feared, sear the flesh from his bones if he allowed himself one taste, one moment of the forbidden pleasure it promised... 

Another kind of sorrow took hold of him then, in the fast dying light, as the winter sunset faded from pale pink to deepest blue, the air growing minutely colder every moment. Cold enough to soothe the deep burn of his face and neck, to numb the slight heat that lingered still about his jaw and lower back from the possessive grip of strong, elegant fingers. The lingering heat of a soft mouth a breath away from meeting his own. 

Ben shivered, his eyes closing at the rush of pleasure he felt from just the memory alone, and knew that he was lost. He would never be able to forget what had happened between them. 

He would not lie to himself. Not again. He would not take the coward's way out. 

Steeling himself and tugging the lapels of his great coat together, Ben ducked his head and walked right back into Washington's tent, only moments after leaving it. 

"Ah, Billy, there you ar--" 

The general paused abruptly when his gaze rose to meet Ben's; the strong line of his jaw flexed as he swallowed a moment later, Adam's apple bobbing nervously. 

"M-major..." He rasped. The older man had begun to rise to his feet, but suddenly seemed unable to stand, his legs weak. He fell back into his chair.

"Forgive me, Sir. I--I left in haste, and I regret it. Please accept my apology. I--" Ben began hastily, before he lost his nerve. To see the general again only moments after leaving him, with his dark hair disheveled, his wide mouth flushed pink as if from heated kisses (kisses that hadn’t even happened, blast it all) made his breath catch all over again. Mouth dry, Ben forced himself to raise his eyes to the general's and hold them there, determined to see his through to the end. 

"I admire you, Sir.” He said, shaking his head at the inadequacy of that particular statement. Admired! Perhaps _worshiped_. 

Adored. 

 

Desired. 

“So very much,” he continued, unable to stop himself from taking another step forward, his voice deepening from the sudden ache in his throat, fighting the urge to close the distance between them until it was nothing. “And what happened..." 

"Major Tallmadge—”

He swallowed. "Or, er, _failed_ to happen..." 

"The fault is mine, entirely—" 

"I do not wish to leave you with any misconceptions—" 

"And if you are angry with me—" 

"Because I wanted it to happen." 

Startled silence followed that pronouncement. Wide gray eyes met his own in astonishment, and darkened slowly, the longer they held his gaze. 

"You what?" The general asked, the words emerging as a broken rasp, heavy with a sudden urgency, a note of tentative excitement. 

"I _wanted_ it to happen..." He repeated. More sure now as his breath caught on the last syllable, the rougher tones of his own voice betraying the sudden jolt of his pulse. "So, so much..." 

And now he could barely speak past the tightness of his chest, his damnable flesh betraying him once more as it flushed pink in sympathy with his thoughts. "Wanted it for so long..." He finished in a shaking, urgent whisper. “So long…”

Washington groaned in reply, the slate of his eyes darkening further to the deep, stormy gray of rough seas, and Ben thought he would willingly drown in their heated depths, and revel in his destruction.

"Benjamin--you cannot simply _say_ such things and expect me to... I--I cannot..." 

The sound of approaching footsteps brought them both short, each turning towards the entrance of the tent, anticipating the arrival of another at any moment. It would be Billy, most like, returning to complete the general’s evening ablutions, to prepare him for supper. There was no more time to speak to one another, and this…whatever was between them, might never be acknowledged. He had to persist, to speak of his feelings, or the moment would pass, perhaps forever.

"But I--" the major protested, hurrying his speech. They still had a moment or two, time enough to say what needed said. More than enough.

Washington stepped closer, seemingly caught between the twin desire to reach for Ben and to hold himself back from the same. His restraint won in the end, for he paused after taking a single step, hands fisted at his sides, broad mouth tightening into a thin line. He took a deep breath, and answered Ben’s urgent words with his own.

"We cannot speak of this here, Benjamin. Not now. We haven't time--" 

And the increasing volume of approaching footsteps underscored that point directly. Ben knew that the general was right. Perhaps it was for the best that it end here and now, on this night, and that it went no further. He had already said and done more than he had ever allowed himself before. He could not love Nathan; nor could he love this man. Fate, it seemed, was determined to deny him at all costs.

 _Yet_.

"But I wish—" 

"Meet me at midnight. At the southern edge of camp. We'll speak then..." 

"But Sir! I—" 

" _Midnight_!” The general repeated, rushing to speak now, as their intruder came closer. He would be there any moment! “Will you meet me or no, Benjamin? Please tell me now. Or promise never to speak of it again." 

Ben swallowed past the lump in his throat. He had promised, upon Nathan's death, that he would never hesitate or live with regret again. If he did nothing, said nothing, it would end. For it was a risk he was taking, he knew, one that could destroy him, his career, his future. Yet—

"Benjamin," the general pleaded. "Please—" 

"Yes, Sir," he finally replied, resolved. "Midnight." 

For the second time that evening, he turned smartly on his heel and left the general's tent as if his feet were afire. 

Midnight, he thought, could not come soon enough.


End file.
